


so please just fall in love with me this christmas

by blamefincham



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Holidays, M/M, Secret Admirer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 20:11:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2745479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blamefincham/pseuds/blamefincham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[anonymous advent calendar-style gifts AU]</p><p>On December 1st, Enjolras finds chocolate-covered coffee beans in his mailbox; on the 2nd, it's personalized cufflinks. His friends all seem to know who's responsible for the daily anonymous gifts, but they're staying quiet. Enjolras would probably do a better job of investigating if he wasn't distracted by the way Grantaire seems to have finally taken an interest in their cause.</p><p>Contains many, many references to Captain Planet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so please just fall in love with me this christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



_Monday, November 24th - 31 days until Christmas_

“ _Seriously?_ Wrapping-paper stations?” 

Enjolras closes his eyes and counts to three. 

At this point, Grantaire’s mocking commentary has become a reliable part of their meetings—so reliable, in fact, that if someone had made a hypothetical meeting bingo card, and if someone had hypothetically left some copies of said bingo card in the pile of to-be-recycled paper next to the copier, “R interrupting to criticize” would be the (hypothetical) free space. Hypothetically. 

As Enjolras opens his eyes, he catches Joly tugging on Grantaire’s sleeve and hissing at him to shut up, but as usual, Grantaire pays him no mind. “This whole list, really, it’s not going to make any difference—we can ‘ _encourage regifting_ ’ and ‘ _help people make informed choices about real versus artificial trees_ ’—we can even ‘ _set up reusable wrapping stations outside local businesses_ ’ and none of it’s going to do anything! The people who were going to do this shit are going to do it whether we help or not; the rest are going to take one look at us and roll their eyes at the damn hippies, then drive off in their gas-guzzlers. Christmas is the season of consumerism and that’s how it’s going to be, so we should just admit defeat and raise our glasses in memory of the ice caps.” 

Enjolras has a biting response for every assertion Grantaire’s made, and normally he would pull one out and start an argument, but today he’s just too tired for that. He fixes Grantaire with his coldest stare. 

“You’re right, Grantaire. Limiting our initiatives to people who patronize local businesses does mean we’ll be preaching to the choir. Why don’t you do some research on other places where we can set up booths for recycling, gift-wrapping, or information—and if you’re feeling particularly ambitious, you can brainstorm some ideas on how to reach those who might be skeptical of our mission, since we all know that’s a position with which you’re intimately familiar. We can touch base on this topic at our first meeting after Thanksgiving.” 

That might have been overly harsh, but Enjolras can’t feel too guilty, because it did work: Grantaire shuts up and not-so-covertly pulls a flask out of his jacket pocket. The meeting draws to a close fairly quickly after that. Enjolras can’t help but think back to his first internship at a non-profit, when his boss had turned to him after a fairly difficult meeting and sighed, “The worst thing about volunteers is that you can’t fire them.” 

—  
 _Friday, November 28th - 26 days until Christmas_

Asking Grantaire for an actual, productive solution has been a time-honored method of shutting him up for as long as Enjolras has known him. R’s art is good (when they can get him to finish it anywhere near a deadline) and he’s a reliable volunteer (as long as he’s not left unattended), but he never actually contributes anything of substance—instead, he distracts people at work with his jokes, or tears down their ideas, depending on his mood. 

Partly because it’s procedure and partly because secretly, Enjolras sometimes enjoys being passive-aggressive, he opens Friday’s meeting with, “So, Grantaire, any progress on getting our message out to a wider audience?” 

“Uh, yeah, actually,” Grantaire says, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket and squinting at it. “The mall was a no-go for gift wrapping because some of their stores do that already, but Barnes and Noble and Wal-Mart said yes, and so did a couple other places. For reaching people, I figured we could make a flyer specifically for our tables at the big-box stores that shows people how living green benefits them personally? Not to stereotype, but if you’re shopping at Walmart, you probably care less about saving the pandas and more about how using CFLs saves you money on your electricity bill.” 

There is a long, stunned silence. 

To his credit, Grantaire does nothing to pretend that is unwarranted. He shoves his piece of paper down the table, towards Enjolras, and then sits there twirling a pencil between his fingers, a carefully blank expression on his face. 

Courfeyrac is the one to break it. “R, that’s a great idea. Why don’t you work on those flyers with Feuilly and Bossuet? I’ll work the stores you reached out to into our scheduling rota for the wrapping stations, which definitely means we’ll need all hands on deck—so bring your friends, people!” 

Courfeyrac’s gift for defibrillating social situations has yet to show signs of fallibility. The meeting returns to normal after that—normal, except for the glances Enjolras keeps shooting at Grantaire, and the way that Grantaire says nothing for the remainder of the hour, just keeps twirling his pencil between his fingers and staring off at nothing. 

—  
 _Monday, December 1st - 24 days until Christmas_

Enjolras is, as a rule, quite cautious about things he finds in his mailbox. His agitation of various public officials has made him something of a target, and while he’s never found anything actually _dangerous_ , he’s inclined to think it’s only a matter of time. 

He’s certainly more likely to find thinly-veiled, “anonymous” threats than, say, gifts, which is why he’s so surprised on Monday morning to find a bag of fair-trade chocolate covered espresso beans. He inspects the bag, but there’s no information to identify the sender, just a tag with his name and the number 1 in red ink. 

Enjolras turns the bag over in his hands. Chocolate covered espresso beans are his favorite candy; they provide a useful pick-me-up as well as being delicious. He doesn’t exactly make a secret of his preferences, but he still can’t think of anyone who would randomly (and anonymously) leave him a present. 

As always when he doesn’t know what to do, Enjolras turns around, goes upstairs, and asks Combeferre for advice. 

“Combeferre!” he calls as he re-enters the apartment. “I just found some candy in our mailbox, addressed to me, but nothing to identify the sender.” 

Combeferre looks over the top of his paper as Enjolras comes into the kitchen and sets the candy on the table. His eyes flick over the bag, then Enjolras, and then he makes a vague sort of ‘ _hmm_ ’ sound before returning to the paper. 

Enjolras feels both underwhelmed and suspicious. Combeferre’s defining trait is his curiosity and he’s displaying none of it at this strange occurrence, which probably means… 

“Do you know something about this, Combeferre?” 

Combeferre looks up from his paper again. “Yes,” he says simply, then goes back to reading. 

Enjolras does a few mental calculations. He doubts that it was Combeferre, but it’s worth asking to eliminate the possibility. “Was it you?” 

This time, Combeferre doesn’t even look up, just shakes his head. Enjolras sits down at the table across from him. “Did you have something to do with it?” 

Combeferre’s eyes don’t leave his article, but Enjolras can tell he’s considering his answer. After a pause, he shrugs, which means _sort of._

“But you know who it was?” 

Combeferre nods. 

Enjolras makes an impatient noise. “And are you going to tell me?” 

Finally, Combeferre folds his paper with a sigh. “No. Enjolras, stop trying to play detective and eat your candy. I can assure you it’s not poisoned.” 

Enjolras bristles. “But how do—” 

“Do you really think I would agree to help someone who was trying to hurt you?” Combeferre interrupts. 

That’s not what Enjolras was going to say—he’s more curious about the gift’s origins than concerned about its safety—but he can’t really argue with it, even though Combeferre is being deliberately obtuse. Combeferre has already said he’s not going to tell Enjolras who it’s from, and Enjolras knows that no amount of wheedling or persuasion will change Combeferre’s mind once it’s been made up. He drops his shoulders, defeated. “No, of course not.” 

His victory assured, Combeferre relaxes too and reaches out to put a hand on Enjolras’ arm. “I know it bothers you not knowing, but I can tell you you’ll know soon enough. For now, try to treat it like a nice gift, not a mystery to be solved.” 

“How soon is soon enough?” 

“Christmas, I believe.” 

Enjolras looks up, brows furrowed. “Is this some kind of advent calendar?” 

He gets all the information he needs from the way Combeferre removes his hand and returns to his paper. 

—  
 _Wednesday, December 3rd - 22 days until Christmas_

Enjolras manages to take Combeferre's advice for exactly one day. When he opens the mailbox on Tuesday to find a neatly wrapped little box, he unwraps it rather than examining it for clues. He smiles at the cufflinks inside (decorated with his favorite quote from  Silent Spring—whoever his anonymous benefactor is, they've certainly done their homework) and slips them into his pocket, then goes about his day. 

On Wednesday, though, he gets another clue, and his mind kicks back in at full steam. Today's gift is a painting of their group's regular table at the Musain—Enjolras recognizes the missing chunk from the time Bahorel got in a knife fight, and the wine stain shaped like a giraffe from when Bossuet broke the neck off a bottle while trying to open it, and the space where Marius and Cosette carved their initials in a heart. 

It's really a wonder they haven't been banned from the establishment yet. 

Once Enjolras recognizes the location, he notices that something else about it is familiar: the style. Warm and vaguely impressionistic, it looks like something he's seen before, and he doesn't often go looking at art, so it doesn't take him long to place it as Grantaire's work. 

Enjolras [9:17am]: Did you paint a picture of our table at the Musain for someone recently?  
Grantaire [1:28pm]: yes  
Enjolras [1:30pm]: For whom?  
Grantaire [1:33pm]: you, apparently  
Enjolras [1:34pm]: Yes, but who commissioned you to do it?  
Grantaire [1:40pm]: could tell you, but that would be too easy. wait until christmas.  
Enjolras [1:41pm]: Why?  
Grantaire [1:44pm]: patience is a virtue, fearless leader  
Enjolras [1:46pm]: Far be it for you to talk about virtues.  
Enjolras [1:58pm]: You really aren't going to tell me, are you?  


—  
 _Sunday, December 7th - 18 days until Christmas_

When Enjolras receives a book called  Collapse from his secret gift-giver, he spends his entire commute buried in it. His feet have been walking the path to work almost every day for the last three years; his brain doesn’t need to get involved. 

As such, he doesn’t realize that someone else is already there until he gets his key out to unlock the door and finds that it’s already open. Enjolras frowns and stores his book. Not only is the door unlocked, but the lights are on, and there’s Christmas music echoing from a distant corner. 

His first reaction is anger. There’s no way someone else is here at—he checks his watch—7:15 on a Sunday; these must have been left on overnight, which is hugely wasteful and completely against everything they stand for as an organization, and— 

He turns the corner and Grantaire comes into view. Oh. 

Grantaire hasn’t noticed him yet, he’s singing along to the Christmas music (surprisingly well, actually) and drawing something on his tablet in a way that apparently requires him to be about two inches from the computer screen. 

Enjolras coughs. Grantaire jumps, swears, and sets his tablet down, then pushes a couple buttons on the keyboard. “Thank god for Command + Z.” 

“It’s 7 a.m.,” Enjolras says instead of responding to that. 

Grantaire looks back down at his computer. “7:17, technically, if we’re talking about the time.” 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “That’s not what—why are you here?” 

He gets it, then, Enjolras can tell, but that doesn’t mean he intends to stop being difficult. Grantaire leans his office chair back a little further than is safe. “I do work here, you know. Not in a receives-a-paycheck way, but—” 

“I know you do, but at 7—7:17? On a Sunday?” 

“You said we could set our own hours as long as our work gets done,” says Grantaire, pointing at Enjolras with his tablet pen. 

“You’re not a morning person.” 

The slight surprise on Grantaire’s face at that comment is, frankly, ridiculous. Enjolras is absolutely sure this is the first time he’s seen Grantaire appear anywhere before noon of his own volition, which is worthy of a few questions. Especially coming so quickly on the heels of Grantaire’s first ever productive contribution to a meeting that wasn’t forcibly dragged out of him...Enjolras suspects he may have been replaced by a pod person. 

Grantaire spins around in his chair once, twice, before answering, a bit more quietly than before. “I picked up a second job, figured I’d make some extra money around the holidays since there’s more work around. So in addition to the weekday morning coffee rush, I’ve got weekends and evenings talking parents into buying their kids Frozen shoes. This week is extra busy, so a couple hours before the store opens is the time I have.” 

Enjolras is still confused, even if a little corner of him is also impressed. He wouldn’t have thought Grantaire capable of that much diligence. “You could’ve taken some time off.” 

“What, and be faced with your disappointed look? No way,” says Grantaire, and then suddenly becomes very absorbed in his computer once more. “Is my music gonna bother you? I can turn it off.” 

This whole situation is very strange, but Enjolras can see the clear dismissal there. He heads toward his desk. “No, it’s fine,” says Enjolras truthfully. Growing up with Courfeyrac has taught him to focus despite noise (and, despite the fact that most of it is either ridiculously materialistic, nauseatingly preachy, or both...he sort of likes most Christmas music). 

—  
 _Wednesday, December 10th - 15 days until Christmas_

Their Green Christmas initiative is due to launch city-wide on Wednesday morning, and everyone is working late. There are a thousand last minute things to do, from spell-checking placards to making sure all recycling stations have their permits in order. Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac, who work full time for the organization, would be there anyway, but the whole group has found time in their busy schedules to come, even Joly with his absurd hospital shifts. Around midnight they order in pizza, Bahorel produces a ridiculous amount of beer, and Enjolras feels like he's back in college. 

The group doesn't start trickling out of the office until after 2, and Enjolras, knowing he'll need to be back by 7:30 for press calls that start at 8, takes one look at his watch and sets up the cot in his office. Despite all teasing to the contrary, he doesn't sleep there every night. More like once a month, or once every two weeks at most...except when truly big events are going on. 

He sets an alarm, but it doesn't turn out to be necessary. At 7:20, twenty minutes before Combeferre and Courfeyrac are due to arrive, Enjolras is awoken by Grantaire quietly letting himself into Enjolras' office. Enjolras' first, half-asleep thought is that being alone with Grantaire in the office in the morning is becoming a trend. 

Then he notices that Grantaire is carrying a thermos, one bearing a green-and-red ‘10’ tag, just like all his daily gifts this month. "You?" Enjolras croaks, bewildered. 

Grantaire jumps, then shakes his head and laughs. "Did you turn into a jack-in-the-box overnight? Your, uh, Secret Santa, shall we say? Asked me to stop by my paying job and bring you this, figured you could use it on a day like today." He pauses, sets the thermos down on the desk, and scratches the back of his neck. "Do you really think I'm the type to do something like that?" 

"Mm," Enjolras concedes, then reaches for the thermos. Recent events are starting to shift his opinion of Grantaire, and his work has improved in speed and quality as of late...but he and Enjolras have never been especially close, or even friendly, so it wouldn't make much sense. 

The coffee is delicious: no milk, one sugar, and a hint of hazelnut, just as he orders it (or makes it, more often). One more thing whoever is giving him these gifts knows about him. Enjolras is torn between feeling flattered and slightly uncomfortable that someone has paid this much attention to him when he has no idea why—or even who they are. 

When he looks up from the first, long drink of his coffee, there's a tightness around the edge of Grantaire's expression. Enjolras opens his mouth to ask, concerned, but before he speaks, Grantaire cuts in with, "I can't believe you actually have a cot in your office. Let me guess: it's for practicality reasons, including reducing your commuting cost?" 

He certainly looks fine now, teasing smirk firmly in place; Enjolras was probably imagining things. He takes another drink of his coffee and rolls his eyes. "You say that like I sleep here every night.” 

Though Grantaire doesn’t reply, his raised eyebrows say ‘ _Don’t you?_ ’ clear as day. Enjolras lets out an exasperated huff and sits up properly on his cot. “A few times a month; weekly at most. It’s just more convenient.” 

Grantaire drops onto Enjolras’ office chair and props his feet up on the desk, then spins the globe, apparently just to be irritating. It’s working. “Haven’t you ever heard the term ‘work-life balance’?” 

That tired argument doesn’t even deserve an eye roll. Enjolras stands, stretches, and starts folding up his cot. “Yes. I’ve gotten around it by employing all my friends. You could argue that I socialize twelve hours a day.” 

Grantaire laughs, though he sounds surprised to be doing so. “Touche, Captain Planet.” 

Enjolras frowns over his shoulder. “What?” 

“Come on— _Captain Planet, he’s our hero, gonna take pollution down to zero?_ ” Grantaire sings, then throws his fist in the air. When Enjolras gives him a blank look, Grantaire’s jaw drops. 

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. You run a non-profit dedicated to saving the environment, and you’ve never heard of Captain Planet? You’re like, one green mullet away from turning into the guy. Come on, come here, I’ll look it up on YouTube—man, you’re set for Halloween for _life_.” Grantaire has already pulled out his phone and is typing something frantically. 

Enjolras checks his watch. 7:29. He’s got ten minutes to spare; he might as well use them to humor Grantaire about this comic book character, especially if it turns out to be something they could use in advertising. He tucks his cot away in the corner of the office, turns off his unnecessary alarm, then goes around to the other side of the desk to look over Grantaire’s shoulder at his phone. 

—  
 _Monday, December 15th - 10 days until Christmas_

On December 15th, Enjolras gets a picture ornament with a photo of himself, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac laughing and hanging all over each other. The memory of the moment in the photograph makes him grin, but that’s fleeting. The personal nature of this gift makes Enjolras increasingly sure that his gift-giver is someone he knows well, probably even someone he works with. The coffee thermos from last week got a truly absurd number of compliments for a perfectly ordinary thermos, along with a lot of knowing looks. Enjolras normally makes a point to ignore gossip, but judging by his friends' reactions, Combeferre and Grantaire aren't the only ones in on the secret. What that means to Enjolras is that if he wants to find out who's responsible, he needs to identify the weak link in his friend group and push. 

It's not exactly difficult for him to realize that's Marius. Marius is a lot of things—intelligent, creative, hard-working, earnest—but a good secret-keeper he is not. He's also intimidated by Enjolras, which means if he can get him alone, Enjolras can probably get him to spill. 

Though being patient is not his forte, Enjolras makes himself wait until after lunch, when Courfeyrac is out of the office talking to some volunteers. Courfeyrac has always been protective of Marius, and he'd be the most likely to jump in if he saw Enjolras interrogating him. 

Enjolras plans to use the element of surprise to his advantage, too. When Marius is immersed in his translation project, Enjolras comes up behind his desk, puts a hand on his shoulder, and asks without preamble, "Marius, who is sending me daily gifts?" 

Marius freezes and turns to face him. He’s doing a convincing imitation of a deer in headlights. “I—what—gifts? You’re getting gifts? What kind of gifts? Are they—” 

“Marius,” Enjolras interrupts firmly. “I know you know. Let’s not make this harder than it needs to be. I’ll ask you again, and this time, you’ll drop the act and tell me: who is sending the presents?” 

Enjolras is aware that he should probably be feeling guilty over the terrified look on Marius’ face, but he just...doesn’t. Right now, as pathetic as he looks, Marius is between Enjolras and the truth, and that’s enough reason to refuse to relent. 

Marius glances around, nervously, but Courfeyrac isn’t dashing out of an adjacent room to save him. He swallows, hard, and opens his mouth. 

Before he can say anything, something small and hard hits Enjolras in the back of the head. Enjolras whirls around (behind him, Marius lets out a very loud sigh of relief). The object in question was a small candy cane, which is now on the ground, and looking up, Enjolras can see the culprit: Grantaire, because of course. 

“Come on, Enjolras, you look like you’re gonna skewer Marius and serve him for lunch, and it’s really hard to save the world when you’re in jail for cannibalism,” says Grantaire over the top of his computer screen. 

Enjolras looks back over his shoulder, but Marius has returned to his work, with headphones in this time and his shoulders up somewhere around his ears. Opportunity lost, Enjolras picks up the candy cane and walks over to Grantaire. 

Before he can even say anything, Grantaire tsks and shakes his head. “Trying to bully the answer out of Marius, _really_? That’s low. Imagine what Courfeyrac would say. You know the kind of havoc he can wreak when he’s in the mood for revenge...need I remind you of the marshmallow incident?” 

Enjolras shudders. There are still sticky spots in impractical places in the office, and that was October. Grantaire is distracting him, though—Enjolras refocuses. “You know who it is, though. Why won’t you tell me?” 

Grantaire laughs and throws another candy cane at him. Enjolras catches this one. “Because I love to watch you suffer, Captain Planet.” 

“Obviously you don’t have the power of heart,” Enjolras retorts. The shocked look on Grantaire’s face is absolutely worth the half-hour he spent on Youtube watching an episode of that incredibly cheesy show. 

— 

When Courfeyrac lets himself into Enjolras’ office a couple hours later, Enjolras’ first thought is that he’s somehow heard about the Marius incident. Enjolras starts mentally casting around for ways to defend himself, but it’s unnecessary—Courfeyrac simply drops into the chair across from Enjolras’ desk, puts his feet up on said desk, and says, “So I heard you made a successful pop culture reference this afternoon.” 

Enjolras is still shifting gears mentally; he fixes Courfeyrac with a blank expression. “Didn’t know you had such an extensive knowledge of early 90s children’s TV shows,” Courfeyrac prompts. 

The memory slots into place. Enjolras can sense the teasing coming now, by the way Courfeyrac is raising his eyebrows and looking smug, so he does his best to head it off at the pass. “I don’t. But Grantaire brought that one to my attention the other day, and I looked into it to see if it was something we could use to help get the word out.” 

Courfeyrac’s smirk just widens. “There was a time when you would have ignored anything Grantaire ‘brought to your attention’, no matter how potentially useful, just because of the source.” 

“That’s not true!” says Enjolras, outraged. “Grantaire and I have had our differences, sure, but I wouldn’t be so petty as to—” 

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac interrupts. He looks pitying now, which is even worse than smug. “Off the top of my head, I can think of at least three occasions where you cut down an idea of Grantaire’s, only to praise it at the very next meeting when Joly or Bossuet suggested it.” 

Enjolras flushes. Surely he didn’t—there’s no way he would be so— 

Before he can continue the argument, Courfeyrac raises both his hands and slides his feet to the floor, then stands up. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad, E. Just—it’s nice to see you two getting along for a change, that’s all.” 

Then, damn him, Courfeyrac walks right out of the office, before Enjolras can come up with any kind of retort at all. 

— 

Courfeyrac knows him, though, sometimes even better than Enjolras knows himself, so a few minutes later an email alert lights up Enjolras’ phone. 

**From:** courfeyrac@ladt.org  
 **To:** enjolras@ladt.org  
 **Subj:** FWD: As requested

musichetta@ladt.org:  
→ Times Enjolras Was A Jerk About Grantaire’s Ideas:  
→→ Natural arts  & crafts workshop for children  
→→ Electric car charging stations map  
→→ Rideshare forum 

Enjolras remembers the ideas, remembers the projects that sprang from them, but he has no memory of Grantaire suggesting any of them. He knows better than to argue, though: Musichetta has a legendary memory, and is always the arbiter in any he-said she-said debates among their group. If Musichetta says you said it, you said it, end of story. 

He reads the email again, then sighs and squares his shoulders. Enjolras can be stubborn, but not when he knows he’s in the wrong. He hovers over the ‘Send a new email’ button for a moment, then he changes his mind and launches the intra-office IM client instead. 

— 

**Enjolras:** Come to my office when you get a minute.  
 **Grantaire:** should i pack my desk up beforehand?  
 **Enjolras:** What?  
 **Enjolras:** No, you’re not in trouble. I just need to talk to you about something.  
 **Grantaire:** ok cap  


— 

Grantaire lets himself into the office a few minutes later, looking a bit nervous despite Enjolras’ attempt at reassurance. Enjolras is slightly proud of himself for noticing, and then being able to interpret, the way that despite Grantaire’s neutral expression and standard slouch, he’s picking at his cuticles and chewing on his lip. 

When Grantaire sits down (and doesn’t put his feet on the desk, for once), Enjolras clears his throat. “It’s been brought to my attention that I’ve been unfair to you. Some of your ideas...I didn’t give due consideration when I should have. I’m sorry.” 

The nervousness is gone, but now Grantaire is looking at Enjolras like he has three heads. “...You’re apologizing to me? 

Enjolras is slightly offended. “Yes. I know I can be stubborn sometimes, but I’m mature enough to admit when I’m wrong.” 

Grantaire waves him off. “No, that’s not what I meant, I—trust me, you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m an asshole at meetings. I know it. If anything you’ve been nicer to me than you had to be by not just, like, kicking me out.” 

There is a beat of silence. Enjolras accepts Grantaire’s point—hell, he’s thought those exact words himself more times than he can count—and yet, he also knows he was in the wrong here and he would feel a lot better if Grantaire would acknowledge that too, accept his apology, and move on. 

Grantaire is the one to break it. After a few seconds, his vaguely uncomfortable expression shifts back to his usual crooked grin. “Actually, you know what—you’re right. You’ve been a jerk, and I feel terribly wronged and maligned, your apology’s not enough to erase my suffering...but I know how you can make it up to me.” 

It’s obvious that Grantaire is teasing, but it’s been a long day and Enjolras doesn’t have much productive work left in him anyway, so he decides to humor him. “Go on.” 

“When was the last time you did something recreational—that _wasn’t_ at the Musain?” 

Enjolras tries to remember, scrolling back in his head, but he can’t. He’s not ashamed of his workaholic nature; there is always so much more work to be done, and he can rarely find a good reason to not be doing it. Still, there has to be a time...He’s pretty sure the occasional movie night with Courfeyrac and Combeferre doesn’t count since they all live together...Surely someone’s birthday party—but all the ones in recent memory have taken place at the Musain… 

“ _Okay,_ that pause tells me everything I needed to know. Look, if you’re gonna spend all this time saving the world, preserving the few scraps of nature we have left, et cetera, et cetera—then the least you can do is go out and enjoy it every once in a while.” This is a fair point, so Enjolras nods, a bit sheepishly despite himself. 

“So, you’ve gotta be almost done for the day, considering that it’s dinner time for normal people.” Grantaire pauses. Enjolras thinks it’s for dramatic effect. “Go ice-skating with me, and I’ll consider all your sins forgiven.” 

Before Enjolras can say anything, Grantaire jumps in to counter potential protests. “I saw a flyer for this place—it’s at the lake, not one of those energy-sucking artificial ice rinks. Yeah, there are lights and stuff, but all the food stands and skate rentals are staffed by local charities, and they get all the profit.” 

Grantaire looks like he could go on, but Enjolras holds up his hand when he pauses for breath. “Sure, sounds like fun.” It actually does—Enjolras knows he could stand to take the evening off, and if the last few days are any indication, Grantaire’s been shaping up or settling down, one of those, because he’s been making much more of an effort than usual to be productive and get along. 

There’s another pause, but this one is less uncomfortable. Grantaire blinks once, twice, and then laughs, tipping his head down and scratching at the back of his neck. “Well, that was easy.” 

— 

“So have we actually found the one thing I’m better at than you?” Grantaire teases. He’s skating backwards in front of Enjolras, arms folded behind his back. He glances over his shoulder every so often to make sure he’s not going to bump into anyone, but he’s effortlessly graceful on the ice in a way he isn’t on land. 

Enjolras shrugs. He’s not a _terrible_ skater, not clinging to the edge of the rink in terror and inching himself along; he’s only fallen a couple of times. “You said you played hockey in school, it’s not quite a fair matchup,” Enjolras points out. It comes out slightly huffier than it had sounded in his head. 

Grantaire, of course, picks up on that and laughs, then literally skates a circle around Enjolras, apparently just to be a jackass. Enjolras changes direction suddenly, trying to throw him off, but Grantaire corrects easily, then falls in beside him. “I don’t know, you could be hiding a secret past from the rest of us,” Grantaire suggests. “You look the type to have been signed up for figure skating by your well-to-do parents, worked really hard in an effort to make them proud, and then, once you got good, quit because you were disgusted by the spectacle of it all.” 

The only response Enjolras gives that is a highly skeptical eyebrow raise. The effect is ruined after a second because he takes his eyes off the ice to do it, and Grantaire has to stop him from colliding with a little girl who has just skated in front of him. He catches Enjolras’ hip, which slows him and changes his direction without completely overbalancing him, then lets go once the girl is past them. 

Enjolras follows the girl with a glare, and Grantaire starts laughing. “Okay...maybe not.” 

—  
 _Thursday, December 18th - 7 days until Christmas_

When Enjolras comes back from lunch, at first he doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Not for about fifteen minutes does he realize that there is something in his computer’s E: drive, and when he leans down to check the tower, he sees that there is a flash drive plugged in, with a small “18” tag dangling from its key loop. 

He opens the drive somewhat warily. Inside appears to be a folder of documents, and when Enjolras pages through them...there are articles by some of Enjolras’ favorite authors, some of which he’s read and some that are new. Many of the articles have evidence to refute popular arguments against their organization, from fracking companies’ claims that there’s no evidence it’s harmful to climate change deniers. There are even a few snappy political cartoons. 

Despite himself, Enjolras feels warm all over. It’s still strange, to be getting these gifts, from someone he doesn’t know and with a motive he can’t imagine—but they’re all so thoughtful, and today’s—this person must really know him. 

This person _must_ really know him, because they got a flash drive into his computer during work hours. In all likelihood, they’re in the building right now. 

Enjolras storms out of his office, a bit more forcefully than he meant to. Bahorel’s desk is closest to his office door, so he heads there first. “Bahorel, who was in my office over lunch?” 

Bahorel shrugs. “Sorry, man, I didn’t see anybody go in or out.” 

Enjolras knows that’s a lie, but he also knows how stubborn Bahorel can be, and that berating him is unlikely to work. He turns on his heel. “Jehan?” 

“No idea, sorry!” 

“Marius?” 

“I didn’t see anything!” 

“Combeferre, _please._ ” 

“How could I have seen? My desk isn’t even facing that way.” 

Enjolras thoroughly intends to question everybody in the office, but he’s stopped by Grantaire looking up from his computer with a frown and tugging out one of his earbuds. “Enjolras,” he says, a bit quietly. 

_Yes_ , Grantaire is going to tell him, and then Enjolras will finally get down to the bottom of this. He strides towards Grantaire’s desk. “Yes?” 

Grantaire regards him gravely. “Some of us are trying to work in here...could you keep it down?” 

—  
 _Sunday, December 21st - 4 days until Christmas_

A few weeks ago, had Enjolras looked at the wrapping station rota and discovered he was partnered with Grantaire, he would have groaned (inwardly, at least). Depending on how his week had gone, he might have even tried to get one of their friends to switch with him, claiming he lacked the energy for several hours of bickering. 

But, whether it was inspired by the season or something else entirely, he and Grantaire had been...honestly, getting along. Grantaire had stepped back from his constant game of devil’s advocate, and Enjolras had stopped looking for the slightest provocation to take him down a few pegs. He’s not sure, now, which happened first. 

Grantaire is late to their shift, which is unsurprising, but it’s by less than five minutes and he shows up carrying a coffee which he hands to Enjolras. “Thank you,” says Enjolras, surprised. He folds the lid back, blows on it, and takes a sip: it’s perfect, just like the morning earlier in the month when Grantaire brought him a thermos from his secret gift-giver. 

“Did you remember my coffee order from a few weeks ago?” Enjolras asks, as Grantaire reorganizes the supplies on his side of the table. Jehan was here last; they do have some artistic talent, but to call their method ‘chaos’ would be putting it mildly. There are a suspicious number of pieces of construction paper in the trash with skull-shaped silhouettes cut out of them. 

Grantaire shrugs a shoulder and deposits a handful of markers into a cup. “I work at a coffee shop. I know what all my friends drink.” 

_Friend._ It’s sort of strange, to use that word to describe himself and Grantaire, but Enjolras supposes it fits these days. He takes another drink of his coffee before replying, “You know, I always thought you had some problem with me.” 

“ _What?_ ” says Grantaire incredulously. Before Enjolras can explain, they’re interrupted by a woman approaching their table and asking for a stack of books to be wrapped. Because no one else is in line, Grantaire and Enjolras divide the books between them. 

Enjolras is not endeared by Grantaire sketching cartoons on the plain brown paper he uses to wrap the childrens’ books. He _isn’t._ He tears his eyes away and focuses on his own wrapping instead; Enjolras is meticulous when he wants to do a good job and books are fairly easy to wrap. 

Once they finish, the woman smiles (more than she otherwise might have, once she notices Grantaire’s cartoons) and puts some money in their donation jar. Grantaire turns back to Enjolras. “Okay, what were you saying before?” 

Enjolras shrugs a shoulder and takes another drink of his coffee, to buy himself a few more seconds. In light of how they’ve been getting along lately, it seems stupid, and Enjolras is not normally given to such insecurities. “Well, you never said a word to me when you could help it and when you had to, you were antagonistic. Everyone else would go on about how friendly you were, so I assumed it was something to do with me.” 

Grantaire is giving him that look again, like Enjolras has sprouted an additional head. “As if there could be anything about you that was unlikeable.” 

Now it’s Enjolras’ turn to look confused. “What?” 

But before Grantaire can answer, they’re approached by another customer—and there’s another, behind him. There’s a fairly steady stream of traffic after that, for long enough that any topic of conversation other than light, holiday-themed small talk is forgotten. 

—  
 _Tuesday, December 23rd - 2 days until Christmas_

Every year, Enjolras forgets all about the holiday party until the morning of it. This year is no different; he comes in on Tuesday to Courfeyrac hanging mistletoe, Joly on Bahorel’s shoulders stringing coffee filter snowflake garlands everywhere, and Combeferre, in the corner, working. 

Naturally, Enjolras heads directly for Combeferre. They often walk to work together (Courfeyrac generally comes in later and stays later), but today Combeferre had left before Enjolras was even awake. Enjolras had thought it strange at the time, but obviously Combeferre, somewhat more aware of office goings-on, had wanted to get in to get some work done before the chaos began. 

“Tonight is the holiday party, isn’t it?” Enjolras asks, in a tone one might use to inquire about the weather. Combeferre nods. “And that’s been mentioned on Courfeyrac’s intra-office bulletins…” 

“Every day since the first of the month, and twice in November,” says Combeferre. 

“I _knew_ you weren’t reading them!” Courfeyrac shouts from across the room. “You didn’t make any comments about the cartoon last week!” 

“Cartoon?” says Enjolras, warily. Combeferre smiles, but doesn’t elaborate, so Enjolras goes into his office and turns on his computer, so he can actually open one of the emails he’s just been marking as read. 

The first email he finds is a notification that someone by the name of “23” has donated to the WWF in his name. Enjolras smiles and stars the email. 

Then he searches his inbox for mail from Courfeyrac. He has to skim three editions of the bulletin before he finds it; on the second page of the one from last Tuesday, there’s a sketch of everyone in the office dressed up as Christmas characters—Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta are elves, Combeferre is a snowman, Grantaire appears to be a chimney sweep—and Enjolras himself as Santa Claus. It’s signed **F** athe **R** Christmas, which Enjolras knows means that Feuilly and Grantaire worked on it together. 

Enjolras prints it out on the back of an old memo and pins it to the wall. 

— 

The party starts at 3 PM, when everyone is too excited and distracted to get more actual work done, and Enjolras gives in because it is almost Christmas, after all. Cosette and Bossuet pass out themed hats for everyone: Courfeyrac gets a Santa hat, Jehan gets a hat with candles on it and proclaims themselves Frau Holle, and Enjolras ends up wearing reindeer antlers with bells on. 

Grantaire has put a snowman top hat on top of his customary beanie, which looks ridiculous, but he still comes over and flicks Enjolras’ bells. “I’ve been saying we should get you a bell for years, so you can’t just creep up behind us and see that we’re not working. It’s a Christmas miracle!” 

Enjolras laughs, and indicates Grantaire’s own hat. “And yours? I don’t imagine you’d even pause for a moment if you ran into a traffic cop.” 

“No way! Fuck the police, I’d speed off in the other direction,” says Grantaire. He offers Enjolras a cup of eggnog, which he accepts, still feeling buoyed by the Christmas spirit. 

“Careful, you’re not the gingerbread man, so he can probably catch you,” Enjolras replies, perhaps a bit too pleased with himself. 

Grantaire groans. “Is your holiday celebration method of choice, like, make as many bad jokes related to traditional carols as possible?” 

“No.” There’s a pause, Grantaire raises an eyebrow, and Enjolras adds, “...L.” 

This time Grantaire groans even louder, and shoves his shoulder, though he’s careful not to do it hard enough to spill his eggnog. Enjolras has another quip ready, but that’s when Feuilly calls everyone over for the white elephant exchange to start. 

Enjolras didn’t know the party was today, but he knew there was going to _be_ a party, so he walked into a thrift store in early November, picked up the ugliest thing he saw at first glance, and bought it. The oversized squalling baby ornament has been sitting in a desk drawer in a plain red bag ever since, and now Enjolras digs it out and adds it to the table with the rest of the offerings. 

The only restrictions on the white elephant are that all gifts have to be either handmade or bought secondhand, cost less than $10, and the unspoken rule: they should be as terrible as possible. These gifts often hang around the office in weird ways; Enjolras uses the heavy metal vase he got last year as a bookend, and everyone was so enamored by Bahorel’s eventual gift of a blinged up troll doll that it’s become the guardian of the coffee maker. 

They draw numbers from a hat. Combeferre goes first, but the gift he chooses (an infinity scarf knitted from glittery, tinsel-like yarn) is stolen by Bahorel at once, which leaves Combeferre with an exceptionally ugly, angel-ridden decorative plate. Musichetta gets a mobile made of pieces of driftwood, which Grantaire steals, so Enjolras steals it from him on his turn. Grantaire protests, but it’s white elephant, so of course he does; Enjolras can tell he doesn’t really mean it. 

“So cruel, E!” Courfeyrac teases. There’s something underlying in his voice, something Enjolras feels the need to refute even though he can’t quite identify it. 

“Last year, I didn’t steal anything, and you called me boring and said I wasn’t participating properly,” Enjolras points out. “I’m just playing the game.” 

Courfeyrac raises his hands in a gesture of surrender, but he’s still smirking, which is irritating. “Sure you are.” 

There is plenty more stealing in the following rounds, but nobody even pretends like they’re going to take the driftwood mobile from Enjolras. 

— 

The party drags on into the evening, in a way that would be tedious if they were all just colleagues, but since they’re friends—family—it’s warm and pleasurable. Enough eggnog and thoroughly spiked punch has been consumed that people are dancing around the office; Jehan on Bahorel’s shoulders (ducking to avoid smashing into the ceiling) and Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta swaying together out of time. Marius and Cosette are dancing, too; he keeps stepping on her toes, but she doesn’t seem to mind. 

Enjolras excuses himself from his conversation with Feuilly to step over to the refreshments table and load up a plate. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Grantaire watching Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta. He’s smiling, but there’s something wistful about his expression too. Enjolras adds a few more edamame bites to his plate. 

Grantaire looks surprised when Enjolras sits down next to him and offers him some food from the plate. “You’ve been drinking your fair share of punch and not eating much. If you have some, you won’t spend the first half of tomorrow hating your past self,” Enjolras explains. It’s true, and it has the added benefit of sounding less weird than ‘I noticed you being all sad and alone over here’. 

If anything, that makes Grantaire look more surprised, but he does take some of the appetizers. “Good party,” he comments between bites. 

It must be, because they’ve been here for hours and Enjolras hasn’t looked at a clock once. “Courfeyrac’s good at party planning,” he comments, and then a corner of the dance floor catches his eye. “His dancing, on the other hand…” 

“About as good as your ice skating?” Grantaire replies, smirking. Enjolras rolls his eyes, but he chuckles, too. Maybe it’s the eggnog, the holiday spirit, or the heat in the office is just up too high, but Enjolras feels warm and happy, content in a way he rarely allows himself to be. 

“I’d like to see him try that move on an ice rink.” 

“Well, if we ever get tired of the two of you, now we know a skate-off will probably end in you taking each other out.” Grantaire is grinning now—it’s teasing, sure, but it’s miles away from the wistful look of a minute or two ago, and Enjolras is surprised that it was that easy. He’s had to send Grantaire home before, on days when he came to work in a black mood and no one could drag him out of it, and all it’s taken tonight was a plate of appetizers and a joke. 

“You’d have to watch from a safe distance, though,” Enjolras counters. 

Grantaire sets his drink down so he can gesticulate more grandly. “We’d definitely set up some pretty epic protection—I mean, an event like that? We’d have to sell tickets, think of all we could do to save the world with that kind of money! But the logistics…” He picks his glass up again and drains it, then finishes, “I guess we should keep you around until we figure that part out.” 

—  
 _Wednesday, December 24th - 1 day until Christmas_

Enjolras’ gift—his last one before the secret is revealed, he thinks—is in his mailbox in the morning, an appropriate way of closing the gift-giving circle. It’s a small green cardboard box with a red “24” on it, and inside are half a dozen macarons (three raspberry, three pistachio). 

Combeferre is out having lunch with his family, so Enjolras doesn’t feel guilty about spreading his gifts out across the living room. The coffee beans from the first day of December are gone, but he kept the tag; he’s got the painting from shortly after that, the hat and scarf from the middle of the month, a few books from throughout the month stacked together, the photo ornament, the USB drive. 

Distractedly, Enjolras runs his fingers through the gifts, picks up one here and there to turn it over in his hands. Whoever gave these to him...they work with him, that’s become pretty clear. They care about him enough to find him not just one good gift, but two dozen, and they thought this out well enough to hide their identity this long. 

Enjolras has tried to logic this out before, but he’s just frustrating himself now, because his thoughts keep spiralling off topic. He tries to think about who all has access to the picture of him, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac that’s in the photo ornament, but all he can think about is Grantaire hitting him in the head with a candy cane when he tried to interrogate Marius about it. He considers who knows his coffee order well enough to send Grantaire on an errand for it, but then he thinks about watching the Captain Planet theme song with Grantaire, bent close together over Enjolras’ desk as the morning sun filtered in through the blinds. 

Then he remembers how he had asked Grantaire if he was the one responsible, and Grantaire had not said no, but “Do you really think I’m the type to do something like this?” 

Something slots into place in his brain. 

Enjolras is already up and pulling on his coat as his mind completes the puzzle, now that it’s found the corner piece. The way Grantaire had frowned when Enjolras agreed with what he had thought, at the time, was a rhetorical question; the time at the wrapping paper station when Grantaire had seemed so perplexed that Enjolras had thought he didn’t like him. 

He’s out the door before he knows where he’s going. He could just text Grantaire and ask if he’s at home or at work, but he has a sneaking suspicion that Grantaire would make the correct assumption from that and hide accordingly. 

Instead, Enjolras flips a coin and heads for the coffee shop. If he’s wrong, neither Grantaire’s place nor the store he’s been working in are too far away, and Enjolras is not above visiting all three. Now that he knows (or thinks he knows) it’s Grantaire, saying “thank you” and “why” seems so, so important. 

Luck, or Christmas magic, is on his side, because Grantaire is behind the bar at the coffee shop. He’s greeted with a smile which he’s pretty sure is not a normal, polite-customer-service smile, and Grantaire is already moving towards the machines as he says, “Fancy seeing you here, Cap! The usual?” 

Enjolras shakes his head. “I need to talk to you. Can you take a break for a few minutes?” 

Grantaire looks like Marius did, that day when Enjolras was needling him, only even paler. But Enjolras’ luck continues, because that’s when Bossuet chooses to come out of the back room with a huge grin on his face. “Yes, he can,” he says, putting his hands on Grantaire’s shoulders and pushing him towards Enjolras. Grantaire opens his mouth, probably to protest, but between the dangerously mischievous look on Bossuet’s face and...whatever Enjolras’ face is doing, he isn’t sure—Grantaire glances at them both, then sighs and appears to resign himself to his fate. “Okay. Thanks, Bossuet.” 

Grantaire leads them to an alley behind the shop; it’s sheltered from the wind, but it’s still cold out there, and Grantaire didn’t grab his coat, so he’s shivering a bit, hands in his pockets. Enjolras considers offering his, but decides against it for now—better to see how this conversation starts, lest either of them need to escape quickly. 

There’s a pause, then, during which Enjolras tries to decide what to say first and Grantaire shivers. “So…” says Grantaire after a few moments. 

“You’re the one sending the gifts, aren’t you?” Enjolras is pretty sure, but it’s worth checking before he reaches for any of the other questions in his head. 

Grantaire doesn’t look surprised. He just deflates even more, curling into himself a bit. “You couldn’t wait until Christmas, huh? One fucking day, asshole.” It’s bitter, maybe, but not harsh, and anyway Enjolras is too busy being confused to be hurt. 

“Grantaire...why?” 

That does elicit a look of surprise, incredulousness, even. Grantaire looks up at Enjolras sharply. “You mean you can’t guess? You’re gonna make me spell it out? Fine. How long have I been working with you?” 

Enjolras frowns. “About two and a half years, but what does that—” 

“Two years, seven months, and three days.” There’s another pause, but Enjolras can tell Grantaire’s not done, so he waits. “And if you asked how long I’d been in love with you, the answer would be about two years, seven months, and two and a half days. Give or take.” 

Enjolras is...well. He’s surprised, but he also feels like he shouldn’t be. Why else would Grantaire go to all this trouble? What else could explain the way they’d been interacting over the past month? 

He opens his mouth. He’s not sure what he’s going to say, but Grantaire holds up a hand, and Enjolras closes it again. “Look, I was gonna say this tomorrow, when I told you it was me, but you’re here now, so I guess I’ll just rip off the Band-Aid.” 

Enjolras nods; Grantaire exhales and puts his hand back in his pocket. “I’ve kind of...been trying to turn my life around. I think you probably noticed in the last month or so, but it’s been a bit longer than that. I had—a scare, I guess, and anyway, I was like, ‘This is not what I want my life to be,’ and I finally sucked up my pride and started talking to somebody, and whatever—long story short, I wanted to start next year with a clean slate, no regrets, all of it, so I decided I had to tell you how I felt and then I could make it my New Years’ resolution to get over you, or something about that dramatic. But, y’know, I’m pretty fucking dramatic, so I couldn’t just, like, tell you, it had to be something big and grandiose like this.” 

He stops, tucks an errant curl underneath his beanie, and takes a few breaths. Enjolras notices that he’s not reaching for a cigarette in a way he probably would have a few months ago, but that might be part of why his hands are shaking. That, or nerves, or just the cold. Enjolras rolls his shoulders inside his coat, considers taking it off again, but Grantaire has found his words. “But it was over Thanksgiving where I was finally just like, if I’m gonna go to all this trouble, then I should just commit to trying, one hundred percent. Like, stop putting my foot in my mouth and being a jackass to self-sabotage—which, it took a couple months of therapy for me to identify _that_ shitty behavior—and just, you know, try to be someone I like, let alone someone you could like. And I don’t—I just want this to be really clear, I don’t want you to pity-date me, nor do I expect you to be like yeah, all right, you passed, you didn’t completely ruin everything, you—what are you doing?” 

Enjolras is taking off his coat, and that’s obvious, so he doesn’t answer until it’s settled around Grantaire’s shoulders. Grantaire is holding the lapels gently, tentatively, but looking a little like a wild animal. “You looked cold,” says Enjolras simply. 

Grantaire grins, which looks a little manic. “More, just, scared out of my fucking mind, but I guess it is cold out here...thanks.” He scratches his head. “Anyway, uh, what I was saying was—” 

“What if I want to?” Enjolras interrupts. 

“I’m sorry, if you want to what?” 

“If I wanted to say—how did you put it? All right, you passed?” Grantaire still looks confused, so Enjolras continues. “By which I mean, you showed me what you’re like when you’re not trying to ruin things for yourself, and I liked it. I _like_ it. I like _you_. You’re funny and thoughtful and we mesh pretty well, even when we are arguing.” Enjolras feels the way he does when he’s giving a speech: the words aren’t coming from his brain, he hasn’t carefully analysed them and chosen them after great deliberation; they’re coming from some other well inside of him, and he can’t keep the contagious excitement of that from showing on his face. He’s sure he’s grinning like a kid. “I can’t claim to have been in love with you for—two years, seven months, and two and a half days, was it? But I _could_ be. And I’d like to go on a few dates and find out, if that sounds good to you.” 

Grantaire is openly staring at Enjolras. With his mouth open, his shoulders hunched, draped in Enjolras’ coat, he looks very small. He starts a couple of sentences with vague, word-like sounds before managing, hoarsely, “I’m awake, aren’t I?” He pinches his own forearm, hard enough that it looks like it hurts. He does wince, but barely. 

“Apparently,” says Enjolras, drily. He’s still smiling, but that’s no reason he can’t be snarky. It is Grantaire, after all. 

That little return to normalcy is what seems to bring Grantaire back to himself, though. There’s still a hint of the awestruck around his eyes, but other than that he looks normal as he straightens up and says, “Right. Okay. Obviously that sounds good to me, and I could feed your ego by waxing poetic about just how good to me that sounds, but—you ruined your own surprise, and you dragged me out here in the cold to hear about it, so if you’re not gonna kiss me to warm me up, can I go inside and freak out about this over a gigantic cup of coffee?” 

Enjolras doesn’t need to be told twice.


End file.
